The Year is 2012

I am my ideal body weight so I must be ideal.

We shop at “Forever 21” because no one wants to be 12 any more than they want to be 40.

We consider baldness bad unless it is self inflicted in which case it’s hip.

We are born with breasts, yet we buy them.

We throw away our boots because all of a sudden it’s fashionable to wear something a rattlesnake would pop a vertebrae trying to bite above.

We leave factory stickers on hats because some popular hipster was too lazy to pull them off.

We build houses with 3 garages and 4 bathrooms for two cars and three rectums.

We have walk in closets but never step foot in our neighbour’s living room.

We wear clothes emblazoned with the name of the school, store or business we purchase from without credit for advertising.

We pull out carpets and counter-tops so we can rip oak and granite from the earth.

We wet ourselves when we see Justin Bieber on the street while we pass each other by without a nod with ear buds blaring “Baby”.

We have 40 flavours of salad dressing while billions don’t have two carrots to rub together.

We gel, spray, condition, tease, curl, shampoo and massage something that is dead while our partners live and breath next to us without notice.

We build cars that can go over 200 kilometers per hour weather permitting.

We look up to sports, MTV and Hollywood stars but fail to notice the real ones.

We drill wells for oil but seldom water.

We practice democracy on American Idol but fail to notice it’s demise elsewhere.

We have at least seven banks you can cash a cheque at and only one for food.

Only the crap you don’t need comes on sale.

Why is my surface considered my substance?